"Boys don't have boobs, do they?"
 

Green Sun
Chapter 7
Moose and Walrus, Bruce and Hobie

by Donna Lamb

The advantage of smoking toads to get high is that you don't have to wait till you're sober to enjoy the hangover.

"What did that kid say?" Sophie moaned.

"Something about moose in the lake?" Bill guessed. He frowned, then winced because the frown hurt then smiled because the wince caused beautiful colors to coruscate down Sophie's antlers then frowned because he was afraid of moose then....

"I should just turn him into a duplicate of his sister, serve him right. Little half-Asian bozo. Teach him to live in the City of Angels and make wishes," Sophie muttered. She didn't actually have to be nearby to hear or grant a wish on Strangefellows Day and currently she and her driver sat under a ramada outside some fast food stand in a little town named after, or maybe before, a Vietnam war leader. They rubbed ice on their aching foreheads and drank multiple liters of Orange Bash trying to get the taste of fried toad out of their mouths.

"That's too easy, you could do that with one antler tied behind your back," said Bill.

Sophie looked at him carefully. "What does that mean?" she asked.

Bill carefully didn't look at her. "Be creative, make him look just like his sister."

Sophie frowned, winced and smiled then shook her head--gently. "Isn't that what I just said?" She examined Bill critically; in the last few moments he'd developed a certain walrusness, or perhaps, walrosity? She didn't like walruses--always befriending carpenters and singing about cabbages and Eskimaux.

Bill held his flippers just a scant bit apart, "Subtle difference."

"What? Difference from which?"

"Witch?" asked Bill, confused.

"Which witch?"

"Oh! Not wish, whisk. I mean, not witch, wish. The boy's wish. Subtle difference, his sister." Bill turned away. The cartoon squirrel on Sophie's left antler was making disturbing gestures. And when an imaginary squirrel makes a gesture that disturbs a demon--well, that's one disturbing gesture.

"Oh," said Sophie. "I think I get it. Good idea, Wally." She nodded her head, causing the squirrel to fly away with a whoosh! Which made both demons wince then smile then glance at each other then frown then....

* * *

Bruce Martin drove toward the column of smoke carefully. He didn't want to surprise any nervous drug dealers who might be armed with who knows what; machine-pistols which they would fire in a peculiar sideways method made popular in that 80s TV show starring the guy who didn't shave. He didn't believe anyone ever actually fired a handgun that way, it seemed dumb. Why forgo the aiming point built into any well-made pistol? Style? What was that about?

Across his lap he held an AR-15, the civilian version of one of the military weapons he had trained with back in the first Gulf War. He felt comfortable with the small rifle but had no desire to actual shoot anyone. Nor did he want to get shot, so he circled the crash site at a distance of about a quarter mile, watching for signs of life and getting upwind of the greasy smoke.

The smoke that smelled like garbage burning; he knew that meaty, sick-making smell and did not really expect to find anyone alive. He zigzagged in closer, approaching from the northwest. He spotted the body about a hundred yards from the wreck by movement of what he at first took to be a yellow flag then saw it for what it was.

"Oh, Christ of Mercy, it's a woman," he whispered. Maybe she jumped from the plane? He drove directly toward the body, forgetting caution. "It's her hair," he said, wondering at such a marvel. "Who has that much hair?" When he got closer, he saw her nudity, and whistled low.

He stopped a few yards from the body and pulled one of the blankets from behind the seat. He stowed the rifle and stepped out, seeing only a single line of tracks leading from the crash directly to the still form of the tiny blonde. "Her clothes must have burned off," he said. He threw the blanket over her first, then knelt and checked for a pulse in her neck. "She's alive." Her abundant hair lay mostly under her but enough had escaped to blow in the wind and attract his attention.

He tried not to think about the incredibly lush body he had seen. He wondered if he should pick her up, she might have internal injuries. But the only blood he saw was a slight scratch on the bridge of her delicate little nose. He noticed other things. Her lip liner, eyeliner and outlined eyebrows were tattooed on but lacked the finishing makeup to make them look correct. Her eyelids and lips might have some tattooed color, too, but without more makeup, her face looked unfinished, like a beautiful but poorly painted doll. She had heavy brassy-looking earrings, big hoops with charms hanging from other hoops.

He'd only ever seen a body like he'd glimpsed before putting the blanket on her in a few Las Vegas strip shows. And he'd only seen makeup like that on prostitutes in places like Bangkok, Miami, and Marseilles. He sighed. Under the tattooing, she didn't look like much more than a teenager, a girl really.

He stood up and looked toward the fire. Almost burned out, the prickly pear patch still smoldered with the skeleton of the dragonfly-like machine sitting in the middle of it. He could see the outline of what might be a two-seater ultralite--and the body of the pilot in the control seat. The source of the greasy, vomit-inducing smoke, no doubt. He walked close enough to be sure but no one could be alive when you saw charred ribs through burned clothing. He did throw-up then, and buried the bile with the toe of his boot. Nothing he hadn't done before.

And nothing he could do for the pilot.

He turned to go back to the girl when he saw a bundle of pinkish leather, half-concealed in a clump of creosote bushes. Investigating, he found three pink leather suitcases, large, medium and small, all bound together by black shipping straps and only slightly banged about. He picked them up, wondering only for a moment how both they and their obvious owner had escaped such a disastrous fire. Perhaps the pilot had thrown them out at the last minute, unlikely as that seemed.

He heard a noise like a lost kitten. Putting the suitcases on one shoulder, he hurried back toward the girl--stopping only to put the suitcases down and grab a water bottle from the big SUV. Seeing that her eyes were open he knelt beside her.

Her gaze didn't seem to track him well. "Who are you guys?" she asked in a little girl voice.

Bruce glanced behind him on reflex. No one. "There's just me, miss. I'm Bruce Carson."

She blinked a few times, closed her left eye and peered at him. "Oh, yeah, you're just one guy." She giggled. "I thought you were twins."

Is that an act? part of Bruce wondered. Another part of him didn't care; her voice, her giggle, her hair, her face, the shape he could see under the blanket, even a slight smell of perfume and musk, everything about her practically shouted, "Sex!"

Bruce cleared his throat. "Do you hurt anywhere? Are you hurt? Can you move your fingers and toes?"

She frowned, a tiny pout. "I don't know? Did you call me 'miss'?"

Richard felt a stab of pain he couldn't identify. "I don't know your name," he said. It took him only a moment to ignore the incomplete makeup job. She's got me, oh hell, he thought. He heard the softness in his own voice, he knew he would do, well, almost anything not to hurt or frighten this girl.

She stuck the tip of a pointy pink tongue between her lips. Bruce thought it looked adorable. Then she asked, "Are you sure? 'Cause, I don't know my name at all. And why does my voice sound funny?"

"I'm not sure, miss. I found you near a wrecked plane. Before I move you, I have to find out if you hurt anywhere." He wanted to run his hands all over her--just to check. Oh hell, he thought again.

"I feel fine," she said. She reached up from under the blanket to pull the edge down.

Bruce stopped her, noticing her painted, manicured, and long nails on delicate little hands. Every little detail announced that she must be someone's--lover? pet? sextoy? "You're not wearing anything under that blanket," he told her.

That didn't seem to sink in. "You did it twice," she said.

He blinked. "I did what?"

"You called me miss." She shook her head. "I'm not a miss."

"Uh? Okay. Can you wiggle your toes?" he asked.

"Sure," she said. "The blanket moved, obvious feet waggling and toes wiggling. "That kind of tickles." She giggled.

Relieved that she didn't seem to have any spinal injury, Bruce asked. "Are you married?" He hoped she wasn't and wanted to swear at himself for such a hope.

"No." She drew the word out into another giggle. "You're funny."

He smiled. He couldn't help doing so. She seemed cheerful, amused, even happy. He realized he liked seeing her smile, hearing her giggle. "Well, okay. We'll figure out what to call you later. But I need to get you up and into my truck."

"Why?" she asked.

"'Cause I need to take you to a doctor."

She fumbled around under the blanket for a moment, looking puzzled.

Bruce watched transfixed. Just how big were her...breasts? He could see her pushing them around and they looked bigger than her head. She must be a stripper, he thought. Only explanation.

She looked up at him. "Am I the only one under here?" she asked.

"Uh, yes," he said. Not counting the silicon twins, he thought. They have to be fakes.

"I guess you can call me 'miss' then. I've got boobs. Boys don't have boobs, do they?"

"Not...not usually?" What had he seen before he tossed the blanket over her?

He watched her hands feel lower down on her body, testing her crotch. "Yup, I must be a girl. I don't know why I thought I was a boy."

"You thought you were a boy?" Bruce asked, feeling totally inane. And uncomfortably male.

"Uh huh, I must have got hit on the head, huh?" Her hands were still moving under the covers. "Ooo! That feels nice!" she squealed. Bruce gaped at her. She went right on rubbing herself under the blanket. "Ooo!"

"Stop that," he said.

"But -uh!- why?" she asked. "It -uh!- feels good." She moaned. "Uh?"

He couldn't think of a good enough reason but after a minute or so, with him watching, she stopped on her own.

"It doesn't feel good any more," she complained.

"Uh?" he said. He had begun to sweat, and not just because of the summer heat in the middle of the desert.

"Maybe? If you did it for me?" she suggested. "Please?"

continued...